The Husband of My Only Friend…
Faina was crying in the kitchen. The reason was that her beloved, only friend was divorcing her husband. Faina loved both of them like family; she had never had a family of her own, and now her stable, cozy little world was falling apart.
Neither her friend Irina nor her husband Viktor wanted to share the reason—they said it was private. Faina nodded, “Of course, guys, I won’t ask you questions. Some things even best friends shouldn’t talk about.”
But Faina kept returning to the topic in her thoughts. Maybe it was wrong, but one question tormented her — someone must be to blame, right? It can’t happen without anyone being at fault. Of course it can’t! Faina tried not to think badly of her close friends; she even felt ashamed of the thoughts that came to her mind! Irina and Viktor were a decent couple, her good old friends. Maybe someone had slandered them or there were suspicions? No, that couldn’t be. Oh, if only Faina could help them somehow, she would do anything for them! But how do you help when you know nothing? It was a vicious circle!
After Irina and Viktor’s divorce, Faina’s life changed drastically. Before, they often went together to Faina’s dacha on weekends and holidays, but now Faina was left completely alone. And it had been so good! She and Irina planted flowers and greens in the garden beds, instead of doing chores.
Irina was almost like a sister to Faina. Faina’s parents allowed little Faina to invite her school friend both home and to the dacha. Irina came from a large family—seven people lived in a small two-room apartment. Irina took any chance to escape to Faina’s place. Faina’s home was magnificent; she had her own room, her parents were wealthy, they had a car—a raspberry-colored Volga—and a dacha! A real two-story dacha—it was unimaginable!
You could climb the wooden stairs, holding onto the walnut varnished railing. Under the railing were carved balusters. Books and paintings everywhere. Faina’s mother, Serafima Lvovna, was an artist who taught at an art school. Her father, Arkady Pavlovich, gave lectures in mathematics at the engineering institute. It was a different, luxurious life. Irina never admitted to herself that she envied Faina. She would never have anything like that.
Never… never…
Lately, Viktor often tinkered in Faina’s father’s shed when they visited. Sometimes he even started her father’s raspberry Volga. The car’s interior had velvet raspberry seats, the dashboard was inlaid with wood. And most surprisingly, the Volga was still running. Its heart beat, the fiery engine worked! Arkady Pavlovich had been gone for a long time; he would have been very happy that his old tools were not gathering dust but put to use. That his beloved car came alive under the strong hands of a different man—someone who knew how to handle it—just like he used to admire the shiny steering wheel of the old vintage car.
But now her father’s shed was locked.
Faina always knew she was ugly, awkward, and that she would never have a family. Her parents even tried to marry her off to the son of an old friend, but it never worked out.
Strangely, after the divorce, Irina completely stopped communicating. Faina called her several times, but her friend didn’t answer. Then one day, Viktor called, “Faya, can I come? We need to talk.”
Viktor came on a sunny Saturday. Faina, out of habit, prepared green cabbage soup with spinach and young nettle. Also, an Ossetian pie—their favorite summer food. Viktor climbed the stairs of the house that once seemed rich. By today’s standards, it was just a shabby dacha of the old Soviet intelligentsia.
Viktor and Irina had lived together for seventeen years. When they married, Irina seemed so poor, defenseless, somehow unloved. She told how her parents made her do all the housework, help raise younger brothers and sisters, and how she grew up like a stranger. That’s why she ran away to Faina. Viktor pitied her, showered her with gifts. Irina got pregnant, and Viktor was wildly happy, but Irina seemed not to be. She blamed a terrible toxicosis, and apparently, she really felt bad. She was even hospitalized, and then suddenly, when Viktor came to visit, Irina, lowering her eyes, said she had a miscarriage. But the doctors said it might be for the best; the fetus was poorly attached, and there would have been problems later. Viktor pitied her again; Irina cried and said they would have children someday, but later, later.
Viktor didn’t immediately realize that Irina wasn’t joking when she called Faina a naive scarecrow and a simpleton. She laughed at her old dacha, her father’s car, and all that junk—Irina now called books and paintings that. The family inheritance, which Faina was so proud of and cherished.
At first, Viktor even supported Irina—why not joke? Faya really was funny, like from another century. That’s why she never married—she needed a kind, decent, loved one, but she hadn’t met such a person.
“She’s a fool, her father tried to marry her off to the son of his rich friends, and she turned up her nose!” Irina protested. And that sounded unpleasant. Viktor said words defending Faina, but Irina exploded, “You two are a perfect pair! I married you thinking you were smart and promising, but you’re a complete idiot. What children? They offered you a position, and you refused! And I starved as a child. I’m fed up with kids. I want to live normally, do you understand what that means—to live normally? And you told me you don’t want to compromise, that you have a conscience, but your boss is cheating. And you left for a stupid, unpaid job!”
Viktor listened and couldn’t believe it was his Irina. A chill ran down his spine. How could this be? How will they live now?
But he wouldn’t tell Faina anything. She shouldn’t know that Irina had envied her all her life, and now, when there was nothing to envy, she just mocked her.
While Faina set the table, Viktor went to chop wood—the nights were cool.
At first, Faina thought it was some kind of madness. This was Viktor, the ex-husband of her only friend. But shortly after the divorce, Irina married Viktor’s former boss. She no longer communicated with Faina.
Viktor came to help Faina with the household, brought her sweet little gifts. They often walked by the river for a long time, interrupting each other, talking about everything. And they were not bored.
Faina seemed to rediscover Viktor. No, he wasn’t a stranger; on the contrary, he became even closer to her. It was incredible, impossible—but Faina fell in love. She couldn’t even imagine it. She tormented herself and felt like a thief. Most importantly—Faina didn’t believe anyone could love her. Simply didn’t believe.
They married in winter, came to the dacha, lit the stove, and, looking at the fire and shy about tender words, talked about love.
The next fall, Viktor and Faina had a daughter. Sometimes Faina felt it was just a wonderful dream, that it wasn’t really happening to her—that she would wake up and no one would be around!
But little Serafima so persistently called for mommy and daddy! Their home came alive with the child’s cry and the sound of a hammer. Viktor began fixing this and that, nailing clapboard, painting, as if restoring, brick by brick, board by board, Faina’s life and her once loveless heart. And she thawed and blossomed late. Though she still sometimes couldn’t believe it was her, that this was really happening. She, Faina, was only thirty-nine years old, loved and loved back, they had a daughter, and they were happy.
Life matters.
